


Throwing Down The Gauntlet

by tkp (lettered)



Series: War Stories [2]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s05e18 Origin, Gen, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-23
Updated: 2006-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/tkp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is part of the "War Stories" series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throwing Down The Gauntlet

"Why don't guys like these just use their names?" Angel complained, as they walked toward the west wing of the mall, where the mallrats lived, under the guy called the Fist. "This title stuff is stupid."

Spike just stared for a moment. "Speaking of. How come you didn't name yourself Irony?"

"It was taken."

"Yeah?"

Angel nodded. "The Master."

Spike snorted.

Angel glanced at him. "You had to change yours," he said, defending himself against Spike's none so subtly voiced accusation. "You had a stupid name, for a vampire."

"You were just thinking on your Da dragging you 'round by the ear and calling you Willy, and you didn't like the parallel."

"He never did that. I dragged _you_ around by the ear."

"Case in bloody point."

Angel thought about that. "Oh. I mean. You were so—"

"Pretty? And you never did that either. I'd tear off your arm before you could."

"It was only sprained," Angel corrected quickly. "You were such a pain in the . . ."

Spike was smirking. "Yeah? Don't stop now, D—"

Angel cut off the rest. "Don't call me that."

"Right. Like 'Angel's' so bloody fitting for a vampire."

"It could be the Angel of Death," Angel said, trying not to sound indignant. "Let us in. We want to see the Fist." This last to the row of men standing in front of LensCrafters. He and Spike had been followed ever since they'd crossed over the invisible line separating his territory from the mallrats'. Men with weapons—genuine and makeshift—had stared at them from storefronts. Spike and Angel hadn't bothered to pay them any heed.

The vampires were checked for weapons, then let into the back office of the store. A large bear of a man, around fifty years old, stood in the center of it. He had straw-colored and straw-textured hair, a round face, and clear hazel eyes. When he spoke, his voice was deep, but surprisingly gentle. "So. You're Angel. Is it Angel of Mercy then, or Angel of Death?"

Angel shot a glare at Spike, who was turning his snigger into a cough. "Just Angel . . . uh, Fist. Guy."

The Fist smiled. "Just Fist."

"Yeah. Listen. We might've started out on the wrong foot."

"Or fist." Fist grinned wider.

Angel held still. Then, slowly, he blinked. "We started out on the wrong foot," he repeated, without inflection, as if he the Fist hadn't spoken. "When we moved in here, we were just a bunch of people, fighting for a place to live."

Fist folded his arms over his chest, interrupting. "These're crazy times. You didn't kill anyone, and you aren't demons, so there's not much hard feelings, now that you've decided to come—"

"That's different now," Angel said smoothly, again as if Fist hadn't spoken. "Now we're the Resistance. And I'm its leader."

"Dirty job," Fist blustered, "but someone had to do it, eh? What I've been telling everyone!" His voice was very nearly eager, almost convivial. "It's 'bout chain of command, about presentiment, about—"

"What that means," Angel continued calmly, "is that before, you weren't my business. Long as you let me do mine, we were good. Now that things've changed, everything going on here is my business."

"Burden of leadership!" Fist almost beamed. He moved around to the comfortable chair behind the desk, waving an arm magnanimously for Angel to sit in the plastic chair in front of it. Spike was still hanging over by the door. Fist seemed very much at home. "With power, great responsibility, I always say! You want to do the right thing; I can tell. And you did! Coming to me. Now, we treat." The Fist seemed like he wanted to offer tea, or maybe brandy and cigars, in little mini-ceremony. "That's what it's called, when people make treaties. Did you know that?"

"You're my business," Angel continued steadily. "So are your people. And you and your people on my territory is my business."

Fist sat up straight from where he had been leaning back in his chair, as if really hearing Angel for the first time. "Territory!" he exclaimed surprised. His hand formed a fist on the desk, and it was pretty obvious how this man came into power here, and how he got his name. "Now wait just a minute here! It's you who—look, there was an agreement. We haven't crossed the borders!"

"Missing the point. There are no borders."

Fist calmed a little at that, hearing what he wanted to again, comfortable. "That's so. There shouldn't be. There should be peace between us. A variable . . ." He searched for words, obviously unaware he'd already picked the wrong one. "A variable utopia, that's what it's called. Do you know what a utopia is? And if there needs to be one man in charge, someone to lead them—"

"That would be me."

Both hands were on the table now, white-knuckled. Fist's eyes flashed, but when he spoke, there was an effort at the same comradely, almost fatherly tone. "Allusions of grandeur." He even chuckled a little. "You're just a kid. The people need someone strong, who knows what they're doing, someone who's proven—"

"Again, I'm going with me."

"Just what do you mean, boy!" Fist exploded. He stood, his fists rooting him down on the desk, leaning in red-faced toward Angel.

Angel stood with his hand folded in front of him, unmoved. "What I said. Everything here is mine. You and your people. Unless you want to go on playing boss. In that case, you'd best get off my property."

"Playing!" One of the fists came up and smashed down hard on the desk. "Now listen here! I thought you knew what it meant to be in charge. The responsibility, the sacrifice."

"I do know. You, obviously, don't."

"I thought you were coming here for the good of your people. For some peace, some respect, some deterrence. Someone who can lead you and knows how. Now I see you're just a power-hungry child."

"The only child in this room," Angel said, morphing into gameface, "is you."

The purple in Fist's face faded into red, splotched with pale spots. His jaw hung open, and involuntarily, his fist loosened and he straightened from his menacing posture. His eyes slanted down to a desk drawer, as if seeking strength, then came up again, angry. The jaw snapped shut, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "So it's true. You are a demon," he spluttered. The realization process continued, and more red came back to Fist's face, tinging purple again. The fists clenched convulsively by his sides. "This is what you've come to do. Frighten me into capturelation!"

"No. Like you said, I came for the good of my people. And the good of yours. Because they're my people, now."

"You think you can take us over because you're some kind of freak? Well, we won't be taken that easily, by God!"

"I'm taking you over because I'm strong. Because I know what I'm doing. You said what a leader should be. I've seen more evil, fought more evil, done more evil than you can even dream up."

"You're trying to scare me! I won't have it; I won't!"

"Not trying to scare you," Angel said softly, and finally put away the fangs. "Trying to help you."

"Help?" Fist barked a sharp laugh. "These are threats! This is how you rule. With fear!"

"May be how you do things," Angel said, glancing with brows raised at Fist's balled up hands. "But not me. Not if I don't have to."

"It is," Fist said, convinced now, and proud of his conclusion. "That's how your people follow you, that's how you fought against us when you came. Your people were all so afraid of _you_ that—"

Angel felt himself losing ground as the Fist touched one of his sensitive spots. "That's not—" he began.

"It's true!" Fist announced gleefully, and then turned to Spike. "Isn't it? That's why you follow him. Like a so serviant dog! You'll do anything he says, won't you."

"Me?" Spike said. "'Sub_serviant_'?" he quoted, mocking.

Angel closed his eyes. He knew Spike was opening his mouth to say whatever was going to come out of it. It was inevitable, and Angel couldn't think fast enough to stop it.

"Sure," Spike purred, shifting his weight off the door. "Sure, I do what Angel tells me."

Angel tried not to look quite as surprised as he felt.

"Angel tells me to shit lilies," Spike went on, walking toward them, "I shit lilies. Angel tells me to call him Daddy, I call him Daddy."

Spike smirked at Angel, rubbing in the hidden barb in his words. Angel didn't acknowledge it, managing to remain impassive, as if Spike wasn't even speaking.

"And when Angel tells me to bite swaggering mangy stupid louts," Spike said, softer now, by the Fist's ear. Spike went into gameface. "I ask, how hard?"

Fist's breath hitched. He stepped back. "B-both of you?" He looked quickly at Angel and then back at Spike again, eyes wide. "God, monsters! God . . ."

"Spike."

"Yes?" Spike said brightly, slipping out of his fangs and turning back to Angel. "Sire? Da? Dear old grandpappy? Master mine?"

"Lay off," Angel growled, not only referring to the Fist.

Spike paused, realizing that the mocking was betraying the whole point. He shrugged, and straightened his coat. "Bet he would've tasted stringy anyway."

Angel's lips twitched. "Go stand outside."

Spike opened his mouth, and shut it, realizing again that unless he wanted to lose whatever he had gained for their cause here, he should go stand outside. He realized that Angel knew that, and had only given him the direct order knowing that for once, Spike would have to do what he was told.

Angel couldn't resist smirking a little. Spike was going to make him pay for it. Hard. But the look on his face was worth it.

"Poof," Spike muttered as he passed, so soft only Angel's hearing could pick it up.

"There's a good lad," was on the tip of his tongue, but Angel cut it off. There were more important things at stake here than getting Spike's goat.

Instead, Angel walked around the desk, and sat on the wheeled chair Fist had been sitting in earlier, turning it to face where the Fist stood slumped, still looking shaken. "Sorry. Spike's a little excitable. And hungry," Angel added thoughtfully. "But like I said. I don't rule by force or fear unless I have to. Tell me. Will I have to?"

"You don't rule us!" Fist said, having regained his composure. "I'm in charge here."

"No. You're a scared man. You've had everything taken away, and you don't know what to do. So you posture and you play and pretend you do. What's your real name?"

Fist looked sullen. "I'm the Fist."

"Name. Want me to stand up and find out?"

"Franklin Applegate."

"Good. What did you do before the war, Frank?"

"The war?"

"Whatever you want to call it."

Fist's jaw was tightening, his eyes getting harder. "I was a corrections officer," he said, some of his earlier bluster back.

"Maybe you've dealt with people." Angel's voice was gentle. "You don't know how to defend eight hundred starving refugees. You don't even know what they're running from. Know how to use a sword, Frank?"

Fist sneered. "I know I could kill you where you stand."

"With this?" Angel opened the drawer of the desk Fist's scared eyes had darted to when Angel had first gone into gameface. Angel took out a gun. He looked at it without much interest, and tossed it to Fist. "Go ahead."

To his credit, Fist caught the gun, cocked, and fired, straight into Angel's chest.

Angel had to let the shock of it take him, but after that he swallowed the sharp, tight pain of it, and stood. Fist's eyes went large. Angel took three steps, and removed the gun from Fist's shaking hands. He put it on the desk, and then came back to pin Fist to the wall with relaxed posture six inches apart from him, and keen eyes. "I meant what I said. When I ask you to follow me . . . really asking to help you."

"But that shot," Fist protested. "It went . . . right through! I saw it!"

"You've seen dragons, and creatures with horns and tails, and spiders the size of city blocks, and it's still hard to believe when you shoot me, I won't die. It's still scary. I get that."

"But—"

"I also get what we're up against. Let me help you."

"What . . . what do you want?"

Angel told him. He made no more demands, instead trying to show the Fist what he could offer the people that the Fist could not. The Fist heard him out of fear. He refused to _listen_ out of pride.

Twenty minutes later, Angel opened the door to the office. He didn't even look at Spike, just felt the shadow peel away from glaring at the guards milling around LensCrafters, and follow him. Once they were out of sight, Angel stumbled a little, and Spike steadied him. "It stings like fuck," Angel complained.

"Gonna let every two bit shoot you?"

"Had to make him see."

"Usually it's the other way around. You shoot them, then they see." There was a pause. "Well?" Spike cocked his head. "Did he? See?"

Angel swallowed a sigh. "He's just stupid. And stubborn. And terrified. Clinging to leading because he doesn't know what else to do. Doesn't know how to give up."

"Could show him how. Stringy, like I said, but I could show him."

"I want to try it this way, first. Without violence. Prove to them I'm what's best, not that they don't have a choice."

"Going to need to make an example sooner or later."

"I will. When it's necessary."

Spike didn't look at him, just stared straight ahead as they walked. "And when you do—"

"Spike. What you did in there—I . . . it, it was good. Thank—"

"You owe me so bloody much, we're counting in gross."

Angel walked in silence for a moment, but couldn't bear it. He _had_ to. "About those lilies . . ."

"Fuck _off_."

Connor was walking around the mall, trying to be silent in the night. It was weird. You didn't think about it, but you didn't really walk around malls. You went from the parking lot to your car, and if you wanted to get to the other side of the mall, you went _through_. But Cassidy had come this way, Connor could tell, even in the dark. That was weird, too. He could kind of . . . smell her. That wasn't right. Sense her, or notice her tracks? He was going to have to work on this stuff. It was kind of cool, actually. Maybe Spike would help. He'd said something about training, and Connor trusted Spike more than Angel.

They'd seen about as much of Angel in the past two days as he had of the mattresses the vampire had promised them. Connor hadn't exactly been looking for him; Gunn and Harmony had been able to show Becky where to get clothes for Ian and ibuprofen for Luis' arthritis. But Connor thought a leader, someone who promised he'd take care of you, would at least show his face some.

Instead, Cassidy was sneaking out at night again. And yeah, Connor realized the non sequitor. He was kind of blaming the vampire guy for that even if it wasn't exactly Angel's fault. Cassidy was old enough to know she shouldn't go anywhere alone, not since the world had gone all nuts. And she especially shouldn't go outside. But Connor had seen some pretty ape-shit stuff in the past three weeks, and knew that fear made you act against your judgment. So far, the mall and the Resistance hadn't done much to make them feel much safer. And sleeping on the hard floor was way worse than sleeping in the motel had been, which was maybe just one more reason for Cass to be up and restless at night.

Connor heard a noise as he picked his way along the wall of the mall. He stopped to listen, and heard

—really loud squalling.

Connor's pulse kicked up. He took a deep breath, stepped around the corner. "Hi there," he said, after a moment. He moved onto the sidewalk.

"Huh?"

Connor's night vision was pretty good, but they had a fire going in a trashcan, which made the scene easier to see. There were three boys. One was eight, the other maybe twelve. The last boy was biggest, and oldest, about seventeen maybe. He was the one who'd spoken. Huge—hulking, that was the word to use for him. Face was pockmarked all over, and his jaw was slack and loose. He had a thick mat of curly hair on his head—and thick mats of them on his arms, too.

Connor looked at the arms, blinking. "Nice, uh, fur?"

The boy hissed. He literally hissed, then tried again. "'S cat," he said, and something moved in his arms.

"Cat," the youngest boy repeated, "on his arms. It's clothes."

Connor remembered some Bible story about brothers and animal fur on the arms and something about a father's approval. Even considering that and the fact that the world had ended and lots of people seemed to be going crazy in like, really Biblical proportions, the whole wearing animal parts that still looked like animal parts still seemed weird. Connor thought about asking the boys whether they'd seen Cassidy, but if they hadn't, didn't want to let on that a young girl might be around. Not with that big boy lurking about. "Whatcha got there?" Connor asked instead, pointing to the thing that had moved.

The big boy smiled, and pulled something out of the bundle in his arms. It was long, and feathery, like something you used to dust with. The boy dipped it into the fire. There was another inhuman cry.

"Kind of messed up," Connor said. "Hey, here's an idea. Put the cat down."

"Just having fun," one of the boys grumped.

"Mind your own business," the other one said.

"They always fall on all fours," the big boy said, proud.

Connor took a step forward, and reached for the cat, trying to look unthreatening. "I mean, seriously. What did it ever do to you? Hey, kitty."

"He's showing us how to cook it," the smallest one said.

"Well, that's gross," Connor replied, "but you don't cook it by torturing it. You kill it first."

The big boy gathered the cat up in his arms. "You want me to kill it?" he said.

"Kill it," the other boys agreed.

"Only if you want to eat it," Connor assured him. "Otherwise you could just let it go."

"You want me to eat it?" the boy asked.

"Eat it!" the other boys agreed. The little one seemed very excited by this. Connor guessed he should be surprised, but it was that whole fear thing, that made people go ape-shit. And this, actually, was very simple to understand, not like Cassidy running off. It was pretty sad, but the kids were all bones. Connor wondered whether these were citizens of Angel's brave new world. As for the torture thing . . . well, when you got to the point where you were eating cats because you were starving, it was just more playing with your food. Kids did that.

"Okay!" the big boy said. He held the cat by the tail, and swung it face-first above the fire.

"God," Connor said. "Jeez, stop," he said, not thinking about being nonaggressive now, just wanting to stop that horrible sound the cat was making. "Fuck, just break its neck. Here, let me—" Connor made a grab, but the boy let the cat go, dropping it onto the pavement, where it huddled for a moment, badly burned, and then hobbled away as fast as it could. Connor's hand, which had made a grab for the cat, brushed against the big boy's arm.

"What're you doing?" the boy asked. He sounded not so much angry as curious.

"You can't do that to living things," Connor said.

"But it was my food. Were you trying to steal it?" The boy took a step forward, causing Connor to fall a step back.

"No, man. I wasn't. I just felt sorry for the cat, okay? You were hurting it."

"But it was my food. I have to hurt you back, now." The boy was standing over him.

Connor thought about punching him. He seriously thought about it, thought about hitting him so hard he doubled over into the trashcan and half burned, just like the cat. Connor had never really had such a thought before three weeks ago, but: fear, and the crazy.

Instead, Connor held up his hands, out and away. "Sure, but don't, alright? No hurting, okay? We can still just walk away here."

The boy looked uncertain. Connor noticed it, and felt a little better. "You were trying to steal food," the boy repeated. "That's not right." He seemed more certain now. Uh-oh. "I'm supposed to punish you," the boy said. He brought back a big fist.

Which was caught in another big fist. "I don't think so."

And the new big fist on the scene cracked the boy's fist, just from holding it, just from white fingers tightening. "Whoa," Connor said, and then Angel kicked the boy down.

The other two little boys had run off. Cassidy was hiding around the corner; Connor could hear her snuffling her tears.

"Are you okay?" Angel asked Connor.

"Okay? Yeah. You just . . ." Connor was looking down at the boy. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"He'll live," Angel said briefly. "Why didn't you fight back?"

"What?" Connor said, shaking his head to focus. "He's like, twice my size."

"You're stronger than him."

Connor nodded slowly. "Spike told you, huh. How I'm . . . little bit freaky, I guess."

"Not freaky. Special. You should've fought back."

"No."

Angel had been tugging on his arm. Now he let go. "What?"

"Dude, we weren't fighting. Just talking. Man, are you always this violent?" Connor pulled away, and went to go look at the big kid, who had sat up, rubbed dirt over his face, and begun to blubber. "Hey, you okay?"

"Stay away," the boy cried. "Stay away! You have to get punished."

Connor scowled back at Angel. "Can't you tell he's like . . . not all there?"

"He was going to hit you," Angel insisted.

"So what!" Connor exploded, standing up again. "I have superpowers, remember? Not really going to hurt me."

"Then you should've fought back!"

"Okay, you know, you read us this whole . . . act the other day. Nice show. We're not stupid enough to believe all of it, and you know, you should work on your delivery, but really, nice show. But what was that, about a new world? I know things are fucked up and crazy, but yeah, if _that_ is your answer to everything," he said, gesturing to the crying boy, "then we don't want to live in your world."

"Yes we do!"

Connor closed his eyes for a moment. "Cassidy."

She was holding something bundled in her arms. Connor had to swallow hard. It was the cat. Why did she have to see?

"I was glad you stopped him," Cassidy said. "I couldn't get there in time."

"Cassidy."

"He said he would take care of us and he _did_," Cassidy said, whirling on Connor. "He did the right thing. No matter what Dad says." She turned back to Angel, almost conversational. She was touching the cat very carefully, trying not to press in on the burned spots. "Dad told him not to show how strong he was. Said it could be worse, if people knew."

Angel turned his still face towards Connor. "Connor—"

"Cassidy," Connor said at the same time. "Let's go. Mom and Dad are probably freaking."

"Connor, wait." Angel made no move to stop him. Hadn't touched him again. "Please."

Connor half turned back, listening. Cassidy was looking eagerly from one to the other. "Please. Trust me when I say this. I have experience with fighting, and strength. There's going to come a time when you have to defend yourself. And you can't be afraid to use your power, then. You can't be afraid of who you are."

"It's mine. I use it when I want."

"It's yours. So use it to defend yourself."

"Hey," Connor turned all the way around again, facing Angel. "Where do you get off telling me what to do?"

"I'm . . ." Angel's hand twitched by his side. "I'm the leader, here."

"Yeah. Not my father."

Angel stared at him. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "Do you do everything your dad tells you?"

"Not all the time. But we tend to agree a lot. He's a good guy, you know? Not some violent pretentious psycho."

Angel looked down. "Like me."

"Look, I don't like you. I don't trust you. Until you can prove yourself to us, this leader bullshit, it's all just words and you being a big bully. And you just standing there? Instead of helping that kid? That's making it worse. Come on, Cass."

Connor pulled on his sister's arm, and the night folded up behind them.

"Angel."

Angel stopped short on his way out of the security office where he stayed, and turned to face the person calling him, already knowing who it was.

"It's Reilly. Laurence Reilly. My son—"

"I remember," Angel said briefly. "Come in. We can talk." He walked back to his office, and held the door for the other man.

"Then you know what this is about," Reilly said, entering. He glanced about the office quickly, then looked back at Angel, who was drawing a chair around the desk.

"Yeah. You can sit. I mean, if you want. It's not the most comfortable place, but . . ." Angel shrugged.

"That's something I was wondering about," Reilly said, taking a seat. Angel sat down after him. "Why a mall?"

"What?"

"Not exactly comfortable . . . well, ever. You said you were at a hotel before? Why didn't you stay?"

Angel shook his head minutely. "Not enough room, for one thing."

"Right. Ah . . . Spike. Said you have about three hundred here?"

Angel shifted his weight. "We're working on bringing more in. With the squatters on the other side of the mall, that's eight hundred."

"Why more?"

Reilly was taller than Angel, and lean. Not shorter, squatter, more compact. And Reilly's hair was mostly white, and he wore it short. Not iron, not longer and carefully styled. Yet there was that same straight nose, and hard, square jaw. In spite of the physical differences, Angel hadn't met a person in more than two hundred and fifty years who reminded him more of his own father.

"I want to help people," Angel said finally. He was surprised he didn't sound as defensive as he felt.

It was almost as surprising when Reilly nodded, looking satisfied with that answer. "Seems like you might have a good thing going here. We're glad you let us in."

Angel's hand tightened in his lap. With effort, he loosened it. "Connor doesn't like it."

Reilly was silent for a while. "Lots of people won't like it. A guy can't just put on a crown on his head and be king. "

Angel stood up so he could turn away. "Actually," he said, talking to the wall, "that's how it's done. That's how it's always been done." He turned around again, feeling weary, feeling as if he had already done this twice over in the past twenty-four hours—convince the Fist, Connor, that he knew what he was doing. Angel had failed at Wolfram and Hart. He'd brought the world to this. And yet he was arrogant enough to believe he was the only one who could fix it. "I'm over two centuries old," he said quietly. "I've seen rulers rise and fall. I've seen it with my own two eyes."

"I wasn't questioning your capabilities," Reilly said. "Hell knows it's not going to be me. I'm not a leader. I'm a father, first and always."

Hollowness filled the spaces anxiety had filled earlier. "Yes," Angel said, voice flat. "That's what's most important. For you."

"Which brings us to Connor. He's what brought us to L.A., actually. Connor was . . . getting the mail. And then there was this van. It must have been going fifty, sixty miles an hour. It hopped the curb, and it ran right into him. It slammed him right into the side of the garage, and then backed up and sped off."

"There was a hit?" Angel stepped forward. "On Connor?"

"But he's fine. You know about his . . . abilities. The van hit him, and he got right up."

Angel sat down heavily. "Who," he demanded.

Reilly shook his head. "Don't know who hit him. But one of the police officers called us later. Said there was a law firm in Los Angeles that dealt with . . . things like this."

"They sent you to Wolfram and Hart."

"Yeah, that was . . . you know it?"

"I was the C.E.O."

Reilly stared. Then he shook his head. "Wait, you're a lawyer? Connor said you were a vampire."

"I'm . . . Connor knows?"

"Were you trying to keep it a secret? You might want to keep an eye on that girl Harmony, if that's the case. Connor figured it out; she confirmed. Did that thing with her face. While she was getting us aspirin."

"No," Angel said finally. "It's not a secret."

Reilly looked at him, eyes measuring. "If you were at Wolfram and Hart. And you dealt with these . . . things. Then do you know why it happened?

Angel didn't have to ask what "it" was. All that experience Angel laid claim to, all that ability to fix the world that even before Angel had stepped up to it, people just assumed he had—meant people asked fairly frequently: _why_. Why were the vampires and demons and gods, like him and Spike and Illyria, attacking? Why were they out in force now, when they had stayed hidden for so long? Why was the world ending, when every day before it had merely . . . turned?

Angel gave the answer he always gave: "It had to happen some time."

Reilly accepted that, as many people did. The gods and monsters were enough to take. Attempts to actually understand them led to an inability to cope, and that way only lay helplessness and death. Most nodded their heads, and got on with surviving. "And Connor?" Reilly asked finally. "Do you know why my son—"

Angel was able to lie more smoothly, this time. "I don't know why Connor is special. But he is."

"I've always known that," Reilly said softly, and Angel looked down at his hands. "But when we found out about his strength, we didn't want anyone else to know it."

"You were being careful."

"When the demons started coming, and we saw Connor was strong enough to hurt them, we told him not to use it unless he had to. He agreed."

"Yeah. Power like Connor's, and mine, it attracts unwanted attention. But—"

"Yes," Reilly said, cutting Angel off. "But it's a little late not to attract attention now." Reilly smiled at him dryly. "Isn't it?"

Expressionless, Angel held Reilly's eyes. "You did your job. I did mine. I'm not going to apologize."

Reilly didn't look perturbed. "I always taught my son not to settle his problems with violence. To seek other methods, first. To solve problems with words, not his fists."

"You . . ." Angel swallowed hard. "Connor is a _good_ kid. He's . . . smart and handsome and just and fair and—and kind."

Reilly smiled warmly. "Well. Thank you. That's everyone any father would want, out of a son."

Angel pressed his nails so hard into the skin of his hand that he drew blood. "Yes," he said, and that was all.

"But the way things are now . . . the world is crazy. Vampires and dragons and who knows what. We need people who can fight. We need to fight."

"Then Connor should—"

"He should fight when it's necessary. So should we all."

"Good. That's good. Great. Only when necessary. Self-defense. I—we want him to be safe." Angel thought a moment. "I'm starting a training program," he said suddenly. "I'm starting it . . . as we speak. It will be a Resistance thing. The Resistance, you know, what we are." He rushed on. "And I'll train Connor in self-defense. I'll train everyone in self-defense. And fighters, to go out and . . . do stuff. But Connor will be safe," he added hastily. "I'll teach everybody. How to be safe. How to fight."

Reilly nodded. "Sounds ambitious."

"Yeah," Angel agreed. "It'll be a big program. Very organized. I'm organizing it. Right now. That's what I'm doing. 'Cause I'm the leader. I organize."

"And you fight," Reilly pointed out, looking at him with that measuring gaze again.

"Only the bad guys," Angel said quickly.

Reilly's response was quiet. "And kids who pick on my son."

Angel went still. "That was . . ."

"Connor will never hear me say it," Reilly said after Angel trailed off. "But I'm glad you hit that other kid."

"Oh," Angel said.

"I don't use my fists to solve things either. I'm not a bully, and I don't ever want to be. Like I said, I'm a father first. But you, you're the fighter. That's what we need."

"That." Angel tried to fit his head around it. "That's . . . but Connor doesn't . . ."

"Connor is nineteen. I may not be two hundred, but I think I do have a better grasp of what might be required. I'm not saying we need someone who goes around beating children—"

"I wasn't—"

"—But I know that's not what you were doing. You were looking out for my son. And I thank you for that."

"The other kid is okay," Angel said, still on the defensive. "And you know, he was really big, and it was dark. All I saw was him about to punch the living—"

"Yeah," Reilly said. "I don't care."

"Oh," Angel said again.

"The point is, it doesn't take just a crown. It takes strength, and initiative, and ruthlessness. It takes honoring promises at all costs. Seems like you've got that in the bag. It also takes kindness, and charisma, and diplomacy, and generosity. The jury's still out on those. Connor doesn't trust you. But I'm willing to put my faith in you for now, in that you have what it takes, until you can prove it to us one way or the other."

Angel stood up, and stepped in front of Reilly. Reilly stood too, and took Angel's proffered hand. "It takes more than all that," Angel said. His left hand came up to touch the skin on the back of Reilly's hand, still encased in Angel's right. "It takes followers."

"I'm one of them," Reilly said. "I'll do whatever it takes to help you. As long as you protect my son, and my family, I'm your man."

"I will. I promise." It felt like an oath. For a moment, Angel wanted blood, for an entirely different reason than he usually did. These things, they were binding. And the man smelled like Connor. "I'll keep your family safe. And your son. Always."

Several moments later, Angel was watching Laurence Reilly's shoulders move away from him as the man walked back through the mall toward Forever 21. Angel had to resist the impulse to follow him.

Angel had been by the night before, checking on them sleeping. He'd looked through the gate, wishing he could be closer, looking over the bodies had been huddled on the floor. There had been only nine. Two missing.

He had just had to follow the scent. Down the corridor, around the corner, outside . . . It was true what he had told Reilly. It was dark, and Angel didn't exactly see that the figure raising its fur-covered arm wasn't much more than a kid. Angel wasn't so sure it would've mattered. He'd seen enough to see the other one was Connor.

Later, after Connor and his sister left, Angel had moved toward the big boy to try to help him. But the kid had shied, despite Angel's soft murmurs. Angel guessed it had more to do with previous treatment than any harm Angel had actually done, because the kid was well enough to scramble up as soon as he thought Angel wasn't looking. The kid ran off. Leaving Angel alone in the night.

Angel swallowed, and moved down the hall in the opposite direction from Reilly, so he could go out into the new night and kill something.

"Angel."

The vampire stopped, and waited. Again, he knew who it was.

"Frank," Angel said, and gave the Fist a weak smile.

Fist stalked up, and grabbed Angel by the front of his shirt. "What the fuck," Fist began.

Angel wrapped a hand around the hand grabbing him. "I already broke one hand in the past twenty-four hours. If you want to keep your name, you better let go."

"That was my son!" Fist didn't let go. "That was my son's hand you broke, you bastard!"

Angel began to squeeze.

"Shit," Fist said, and let go.

"Come in," Angel said softly. "We can talk about this."

Fist stalked into the office. Angel closed the door behind them. "I didn't know you had a son," Angel said wearily, flinging himself down into the chair behind the desk. He could taste dust in his mouth, as if it had fallen there, with time. "So the boy. About six-four, with the cat skins? That was him? Your son?"

"You're goddamned right." The Fist had his hands balled up again, thrust down on the desk, leaning over it again. Seemed to really like that pose. Angel guessed it got him what he wanted a lot of times in life.

Angel made a negligent gesture. "Sit down."

"I will not sit down! I listened to you. We treated! I gave you a fair chance and everything, despite your ignoramus threats! I was willing to consult, compromise. Instead you beat up my son!"

"He was going to hurt one of my people."

"He didn't hurt anyone! You went battleistic, you monster. I heard all about it. Don't try to lie."

"I'm not lying. Your son's hand was raised to hit one of my people. I stopped him. It's what I do here. I told you yesterday—you accept that, you leave, or you die. It's not up for discussion."

Fist had tried to interrupt him several times, but Angel's cold voice carried through. Large, clear eyes were bugging out of the Fist's skull by the end. Now that he thought about it, Angel thought he could see a family resemblance. "You were on our territory!" Fist finally spluttered. "All of you!"

"It's my territory. For now, I'm letting you live on it. I don't like repeating myself, Frank."

"Your boy was stealing my son's food." Fist finally backed up, and crossed his arms over his chest, as if this last trumped everything.

"Connor Reilly," Angel said, death in his voice, "is not my boy."

"One of yours," Fist spat, punctuating it with a jab of a thick, blunt finger. "Stealing food. Capital offense. Punishable by death."

"Your laws don't mean anything."

"I demand recrimation."

"Recrimination. Actually, retribution."

"What?" Fist fumed.

"I think you mean . . . Oh, never mind." Inwardly Angel sighed, understanding this for what it was. The Fist had already given up control in everything but his stupid, insistent pride—he didn't know it yet, but he had. He'd latched on this issue because it was something he could understand, because he wanted to believe he wouldn't just roll over and show his belly without putting up a fight, without at least something in return. The Fist was trying to exert some kind of paltry power over Angel, in exchange for surrendering completely. A slightly smarter man would've made less symbolic, more substantial demands. A much smarter man would've shut up and come quietly.

But Angel, thinking about his meeting with Reilly, and the incident with Connor, saw now that the Fist would never come quietly. If the unfortunate incident with his son hadn't happened, it would've been something else. Fist was too cocky, and strangely showy. He seemed to like the trappings of leadership, of standing on ceremony. All that was required, now that Angel understood that, was the proper _kind_ of ceremony. And maneuvering the Fist into a spot to do it. Feeling out his options, Angel said, "What will it take?"

"I won't be manipulated." The Fist jerked up his chin, for once seeming to understand where Angel was coming from. "This can't be negotiated. Recrimation, boy, that's what I want."

"Retribution," Angel said again. Angel knew it didn't have anything to do with that. It didn't it even have to do with the Fist's son, whom Angel guessed the Fist could care less about, considering the state the boy was in. This was about pride. "Yeah," Angel said. "How do you want to do that? Want to fight? Want to, I don't know, cane me? Want to play chess? I'm open to suggestion."

"I want to kill the boy."

"No."

"I said—"

"I said no," Angel said, and it was as simple as that.

Fist's jaw worked, but nothing came out. "Fine." The Fist crossed his arms over his chest again. "I want to beat the boy. Like you beat mine."

"Your issue." Angel's voice was chillingly distinct. "Is with me. How we're going to deal with this is through me."

"My issue is with him." Fist seemed smug. "He stole food."

"You're afraid," Angel said, cutting to the heart of the matter, the reason for the Fist's heated and ridiculous demands. "You're afraid to touch me because you know how easily I could kill you." Angel took a step forward. "Do you know how difficult I could kill you, too? I could make it slow." Another step, close now, and whispering. "I could rip your fucking heart out through your throat, and you would still be breathing." Fist flinched, but otherwise surprisingly held his ground. "Let's get this straight. If you touch one _hair_ on that boy's head, you'll _wish_ I'd killed you that way."

Fist's shoulders slumped a little, but his voice was sullen. "Then no deal."

"There must be something you want." Angel's voice was still near the Fist's ear, low. "Something to keep me from crushing your balls so hard your eyeballs pop out of your skull."

Fist refused to budge. Another reason why he'd come into power, Angel guessed. Too stubborn or just too stupid to understand threats. The difference was that Angel would follow through with his. "A stand-in," Fist said finally.

Angel gave him a little space. "What?"

"The kid's the problem. But I'll accept a stand-in to take his punishment."

"You want a proxy."

"Yeah," Fist said, almost eager. "That's it."

"What's this punishment?"

"I want to beat him up." Fist liked that idea a lot. Licked meaty lips, and nodded at himself.

"No," Angel said. "You could kill someone that way. There's isn't gonna be killing."

Fist chewed on his lip. "Well. There's . . . hanging. And quartering. And evicting."

Angel rolled his eyes. "If you mean eviscerating, you're still on killing. You want a ritual punishment? You want everyone gathered to see? A public display? That it?" Roll out the line.

"Yeah," Fist said, brightening, really warming to it. Hook and sinker. "And things could be read. A list of crimes, and such."

"And afterward, you step down. You name me leader. You make sure your people understand that, too."

"Well now . . ." The Fist looked troubled.

"That was the deal," Angel said, as if reminding him. There had been no deal, of course, but the Fist would take the easy way out. He would think he was being sly, giving up the lead but gaining power over the lead, maneuvering into the position to make more demands in the future. Make himself into a martyr, make his son a martyr, make a public showing of his resistance, Angel's oppression, the ways Angel had wronged them all. He thought he was the one playing, instead of getting played. "So," Angel said briskly, "I'll stand proxy; what, three dozen lashes—"

"Not you."

"What?"

"You can't be proxy."

"Why the fuck not?" Angel didn't bother to hide his annoyance, but restrained himself from rolling his eyes again.

"You're a demon."

"So? So," he said slowly, "you're still afraid."

"It should be done a proper way," Fist insisted. "You're the leader. You don't take punishment. And you said yourself, the boy wasn't yours. So it should be someone closer to him. Should be the one who's boy he _is_."

And the bottom dropped out of Angel's world a little.

"A father's justice," Fist said smugly.

This was insane.

This was fucking _insane_.

It was like a circus, people everywhere. Connor's mom and Cassidy were beside Connor, and somewhere back and a little to the left were the Elliot's and Gutierrez's. The Ho's and Sternman's and Al, their neighbors at Bath and Body Works, had walked up with them too; they were close by. Along with everyone else and their little old grandmothers.

Some dudes had carried Gunn in on a stretcher. He was sitting at one of the tables that outlined the one clear square of space in the very middle. Harmony was sitting beside him. Angel was standing up in the center square, arms crossed over his chest, looking dour. Spike was lounging beside him, looking rather satisfied.

That pissed Connor off more than a lot of it. He'd liked Spike.

And then there was the Fist, on the other side, with his son. His son's name was Marley, and the dim sunlight filtered through the frosted glass of the food court did nothing to improve his huge, cumbersome body, his dull face, or the arms strapped in fur.

And then there was Connor's dad, in the middle.

Connor could just walk into the middle too, and tell them to stop. Maybe it wouldn't do much good, but—superpowers. Connor could hold his fist up and catch the whip or whatever they were using on his forearm. He'd seen that in a movie, once. He thought it was kind of cool. Then he could jerk the weapon to him and use it on anyone. Everyone, who got in his way, who came near his father.

But there would still be this Fist guy, out gunning for them. And Marley. And all the mallrats, who were apparently behind this stupid thing one hundred percent. And there would still be Angel, who thought he could control them, thought that in any universe, this could somehow be okay.

The morning before, Connor had awoken to find Angel standing outside the gate of Forever 21. The gate was pulled down, but you could see through the squares of metal easily enough. Angel had been talking to Luis, Guadalupe's father-in-law, who had nodded. "Reilly?" he had asked. "Which?"

"Laurence," Angel had said.

Luis nodded again, and walked farther back in the store to shake Connor's dad awake. When Reilly came up to the gate, he was still groggy. He saw Angel, and immediately went to go pull the gate up. The mechanism to do it had already been broken when they got there—looters, probably—but the gate did add some feel of security. Especially since it made some bit of noise—kept people inside, as well as out. That was how Connor had heard Cassidy, two nights before.

"You said you'd do what it takes, Mister Reilly," Angel had said softly.

Reilly had yawned. "Huh? Oh. Laurence."

"Okay. Are you ready?"

And then they had gone off, to Angel's special office, probably, and Connor hadn't known what they said. Hadn't known what they'd said when they'd met the day before that either, but Connor hadn't liked it. His dad had seemed to side with Cassidy over the whole Angel hitting the kid thing, even though Reilly was careful to point out he was proud of Connor for trying to settle things without violence. Careful to point out that he never wanted Connor using violence except in self-defense. Didn't point out that it wasn't alright for other people to use it not in self-defense, also.

Connor ground his teeth, looking over the food court. Apparently, his dad agreed with not only Angel using it, but anyone else with a big stick too, including this asshole Fist, whoever he was. And his dad agreed with them using that violence—that big stick—on _him_. If Connor had known that's what they were going off to agree to, what Angel was asking, standing there in the morning by the gate, Connor would've used some violence then, too.

Connor still might. He was thinking about it. He could kill this Fist guy, no question. He didn't look so very big, and he was just a man. There was this tight feeling deep at the bottom of Connor's stomach that wanted to do it. It felt small, and vicious, clawing it's way out of him, burning. Like the cat. But he didn't want to let it go. He didn't want to make those sounds. He didn't want it to land on all fours.

There'd been whispers all the day before, rumors behind hands. There was going to be another battle between the mallrats and the Resistance, and this one would have blood. Angel and the Fist were going to fight to the death. The Fist's son—Marley, that was his name—was going to whip Spike. There was going to be a cat fight. With one hundred starving cats, pitted against each other. Or against someone. The cats were going to eat someone, in retribution for getting eaten so much lately.

Retribution, though, that was the word repeated the most. And then it was announced. Like a fight, or a commercial for a television show. The Fist was going to claim retribution against Laurence Reilly, for the dispute between their sons. In return, he would surrender control of the mallrats to Angel.

It was stupid. It didn't make any sense. The two things had nothing to do with each other at all. Connor didn't get it. But his dad was doing it.

"I know it doesn't make much sense," Reilly had said. "But the Fist has it in for you. Even when Angel takes over the mallrats, the Fist'll still have a grudge. He wants to punish you, or else this will never be over."

"I didn't do anything to his freaking son," Connor had said. "I was being nice. Saving kitty-cats, even. How come we're getting punished again?"

"He has a grudge on you. He won't get over it."

"Then let _me_ take it, if he has a grudge against _me_. I can handle him."

"Not gonna happen, kiddo. Besides, he has it in for you so bad, he could kill you. Or, if you had to fight back . . ."

"I wouldn't ever _hurt_ anyone, Dad."

"I want to make it so you don't have to."

"He has it in for us because Angel beat up his son. Why the hell can't Angel stand up for it?"

"The Fist's too afraid of Angel."

"That's Angel's fucking fault!"

"Connor!"

"What are you, going to go all Mom on me now? You know it's Angel's fault. All of this is Angel's fault! And you just fucking take it! You just . . . bend over, like everyone else. What's so fucking great about Angel? He got us into this. If he hadn't—"

"That's enough, Connor."

Connor had stood there, clenching his fists hard. "I don't want this to happen, Dad."

"It's just—it's not even going to hurt that much. Then it will be over soon."

"You know that's not all. It's about humiliation. It's about _letting_ someone do this to us. It's about Angel letting them do this to us, because of something he did."

"Yeah, kiddo," his dad had said softly. "It's about what I'll go through not to become like them. Assholes. Oppressors. Monsters. A guy who beats his mentally challenged son, and a kid who tortures cats. It's about what I'll go through so you won't get hurt."

That didn't make it any less stupid, Connor thought, shaking his hair back impatiently, looking around.

The worst part about it was the three-ring feel. There were as many food courts in the mall. Two were small—one in the west wing, the other in the east. The last was in the middle, and open in four directions. It was huge, the overall size of it dwarfing the little Chik-fil-a's and Panda Expresses that lined the edges of it. There was a freaking merry-go-round, which Connor rather thought should've been part of the circus, but that had been pulled to the side.

No need to wonder how. With all these people, they could've moved a tank without driving it, no problem. The food court was jam-packed, except for the square of tables with the clear space inside them, in the very middle. All around, people craned their necks, or stood on tables, or climbed on the merry-go-round, all to see the spectacle. Connor's father had told them there were about eight hundred people staying in the mall, including these mallrat people. It felt like there were more. All turned out, to watch Connor's dad get beat.

Gunn was reading some trumped up thing about something. About the Fist and Angel, about Marley and Reilly, and Connor himself, about the mallrats and Angel ruling and owning everything everywhere. Connor had liked Gunn, too. Then he'd heard he was a lawyer, who was going to write it up so the thing sounded like some legal mumbo-jumbo people thought somehow made sense when it was really just psycho. Stupid lawyers. You know, the whole goddam reason they were in L.A. was because of stupid lawyers.

The Fist had stepped into the space, clutching—well, fisting—this rod thing. So, not a whip. Connor wondered whether they were going to make his father drop his drawers. In the midst of this whole farce, that would pretty much just fit right in.

Gunn finished talking. Harmony was saying something. The Fist was advancing. His eyes looked crazed. He was more than a little nuts, Connor had already decided, before ever seeing him. For one thing, there was the way Marley had turned out to consider. The boy was standing there, looking around him happily, a little confused maybe, stroking his broken hand, but overall very happy. For another thing, the Fist had not a thing to gain in all this. He was just doing it for the fun of beating someone up. To show he was strong than someone at least, no matter how he got on his knees for Angel.

Next to Connor, Cassidy's dying cat yowled, and Cassidy hid its burned face against her chest. The Fist was still advancing. Connor looked around again, and saw that Angel had disappeared.

Well, that made sense. All this folly, then didn't even bother to stick around for the big finish. Just like the bastard, the coward who wouldn't even own up to his mistakes, take responsibility for beating up a halfwit child and causing a madman to become bent on revenge.

The Fist was talking, standing behind Connor's father, who wasn't looking scared. Connor wanted to shake him. Instead, he listened. "This is not for me," the Fist was saying. "This is not for Marley. This is for all of us, who are oppressed, by monsters and demons everywhere."

And then, out of nowhere, kind of like the night when he broke Marley's hand, Angel was there again, breaking into the open space through the crowd, like it was nothing. He had with him—well, she was blue. Blue and kind of hot. What—

The Fist didn't notice. He raised the rod. "This is for we who have been coursed into surrender, into supplication, into submission to monsters who—"

"Monsters who drone on," Angel said, wrapping his hand around the guy's fist, "and on," he spun the guy around, just using his arm, and brought the other guy's arm down to his knee, "and _on_," Angel finished, and was doing something to the Fist's arm, using his knee as leverage. The Fist was screaming. "And that," Angel said, throwing down something, "is for the Resistance."

It was a hand.

It was a hand, and the screams were terrible.

Kind of like the cat's, Connor thought, abstractly. When you let it go, he realized, it wasn't you who made the sounds. You made other people make them.

Now, how did you rip someone's hand off, without even using a knife? It was kind of interesting, in a way.

There was a deathly silence. Except for the screams, of course. And somewhere, Marley was blubbering again. "There isn't a Fist any more," Angel said into that quiet. "Or if there is, it's a bit detached these days."

No one even tittered.

"I told him I wouldn't use force unless I had to. He made me have to. I'm the boss, now," he said, looking around, and Connor at last understood. Angel had wanted this. The charade, the spectacle, the circus. He'd planned all of this, so everyone would be here, gunning for blood. The Fist would be surrendering anyway, but Angel wanted to show just what he could do, just how much he was in charge. Show you couldn't make demands in return, once you really surrendered. You couldn't avenge your kid, if that was what the Fist had really thought he was doing, and you couldn't make a petty show of power by beating one of Angel's people. You didn't get to touch Angel's people. And you didn't get any power, ever.

But Angel had already hurt them. Humiliated them, made Connor think his father. . . Connor wondered if Reilly knew.

More importantly, Angel had _ripped off that guy's hand_. Again, Connor wondered if his father _knew_.

"I'm the ruler now," Angel was saying again. His voice carried, without rising much. "Of all of you. And I will take care of you. I will protect you. I will clothe you, shelter you, any need you have, I'll be there. But I'll be the one doing the punishing." Angel gestured at the severed hand. "And if you have some kind of quarrel, between people, between families—any rivalry, any fight, any raised fist—" and here he looked directly at Connor—"I'll be the one fighting it. I'll be the one who tells you how to handle it. And you won't question it. Because I'm in charge here."

Angel finally looked away from Connor, but his eyes didn't even bother to sweep over over the crying, choking man in the center. "Clean this," Angel said dismissively, and started to walk away.

"Severed hands," Spike was saying. "Bitch to mop up."

On the floor, the Fist was moving. He was rising up out of his own blood. Angel had made it to the other side of the square now, pushing through the people, but the Fist's strength was born out of pain, fear, panic. He leapt through the air at the departing vampire.

The blue woman, who had turned to follow Angel, turned back again. And caught the Fist by the skull. Twisted, and slammed down.

The body was limp on the ground. It was a little worse than dead. There was something wrong with it—literally flattened, a little bit, with the force with which it had been slammed down. This too, was purposeful, Connor knew. Others might think it was because the Fist had come after Angel, tried to fight back, but Connor knew deep inside him it would've happened anyway. There was no other reason Angel had left at the crucial moment, except to bring in the blue chick. Except to murder the Fist, without getting the death-blood on his hands.

Angel paused, but without even turning back, he kept walking through the crowd. It parted for him like the sea had once, long ago, for another man.


End file.
